


In Bloom

by celestialskiff



Category: Leverage
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Image, Chronic Pain, Cuddling & Snuggling, Disability, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Multi, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, they're all middle-aged and have chronic pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 07:14:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15189590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: Hardison had set the beds up with a timed heating pad, so Parker's knees didn't seize up while she was asleep.A day in the life of our favourite OT3 around fifteen years post canon. Parker, Hardison and Eliot are dealing with the aftermath of a major injury. This fic is all about kindness and access intimacy.





	In Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to capeofstorm for the beta. Not US-picked -- sorry for any mistakes.

Hardison had set the beds up with a timed heating pad, so Parker's knees didn't seize up while she was asleep. On the bottom bunk, another pad switched on to warm Eliot's back and shoulders. Parker stretched carefully, assessing the pain. She'd learnt to do that over the last few years. Today was good. She wriggled to the edge of the bed and looked down at Hardison and Eliot. 

They'd tried a few different sleeping arrangements over the years, but this one seemed to work best. Parker had a single bunkbed over Hardison and Eliot's double, because she liked to be close to her boys, but she also liked to be high up and she slept better without any rogue elbows poking her in the ribs. 

She reached down, stretching her arm, and stroked Hardison's temple. He murmured sleepily, and snuggled closer to Eliot, nuzzling his nose into Eliot's neck. Eliot, never a deep sleeper, was already stirring. 

Parker eased herself off the edge of the bed, flipping carefully, and landed at the boys' feet. 

“Use the ladder, Mama,” Hardison said, voice muffled. “Flips are bad for your spine.” 

“How did you know? Your eyes aren't even open.” Hardison had a sixth sense for athletics not sanctioned by doctors. It wasn't fair. 

Parker wriggled between them, Hardison throwing a thigh over her leg. “It's so musty down here. Have you guys just been farting all night?” 

“You're the one who wanted Eliot's chili for dinner,” Hardison said defensively. 

“Besides, you ain't one to cast stones,” Eliot said, eyes still closed. “I heard you last night going off like a fog horn. You woke me up.” 

Parker poked him. “Not me. Must have been Hardison.” 

“You think after fifteen years I can't tell you two apart?” Eliot raised his eyebrows. 

“OK, you got me. I think smell rises though. Like heat. So I'm the one who suffers up there.” 

Eliot snorted, began to roll over, and then gritted his teeth, as if movement hurt. 

Parker shifted so she could see him properly. “Bad pain day?” 

Eliot started to shrug, winced, and looked away from her. “Could say that.” 

“And if you are, then it's a really bad day.” Hardison sat up, looking concerned. “I'll get the good pills.” 

“They'll knock me out,” Eliot protested. 

Parker smoothed his hair back from his face. “I know. I hate it too.” But she took the strongest painkillers from the bedside table while Hardison got a glass of water from the bathroom. 

“I really need to punch something,” Eliot said. Parker took his hand in hers: both of them had arthritis in their fingers and wrists from the punishment they'd taken over the years. These days, Parker could barely remember not having a dull ache in her knuckles. It increased to sharp pain in the evenings, and she was sure it was worse for Eliot. 

“Maybe stick to kicking,” she said, taking the glass of water from Hardison. 

Eliot raised his head and hissed a breath in through his teeth. Parker wanted to help him, but she knew better. The less concern and mothering Eliot received, the better he liked it, though he'd had to make concessions after he'd busted his vertebrae. Time and pain had eroded some of his boundaries. 

He took one of the two pills Parker offered, and swallowed it dry. 

“That's bad for your oesophagus, man,” Hardison said. 

“Shut up.” 

Parker left the glass and the pills in his reach. Hardison nagged him to take the other one. 

Eliot's eyes closed. “Fuck,” he breathed. “I've got the goddamn call button if I need either of you. Go away.” 

As Parker stood up, Eliot added, “I made bread last night. It's in the breadmaker. Don't eat crap for breakfast.” 

Hardison leant over and kissed his forehead. “Yes, sir.” 

* 

Parker wanted to eat sitting cross-legged on the counter, but her knees were against her. Getting older in this game meant one betrayal after another from a body she'd honed and trusted. She ate Eliot's bread with peanut-butter and banana, sitting at the table like a normal adult and reading the reports from their company over Hardison's shoulder. 

When they weren't working on menus, playing video games, or building harnesses and mountaineering gear, they worked for a charity they'd built up together. Centring on helping child soldiers, it involved a lot of foiling corrupt governments, but less legwork than the previous job. It was rewarding and stimulating, but it left both Parker and Eliot grouchy and anxious. They needed to see what they were doing; they needed to be out in the world, risking their own necks. 

“Looks good,” Hardison said, going over his emails. “You can start getting hooks into the general.” 

“Eliot's better with military than me.” Parker finished her banana. 

“The mood he's in, he'll get mad and blow our cover,” Hardison countered. 

“I know.” Parker bit her lip. “Do you think he's having bad days more often?” 

“Maybe.” Hardison thought about it. “I think it's just that when they come, they're worse than they used to be.” His hands flicked over the screen, bringing up a doctor's profile. “He should get another x-ray.” 

“Ugh. Yeah, he probably should. You tell him, not me.” 

“He reacts better when you nag him,” Hardison said. 

“That's because it's your job to nag him. I sympathise.” 

Hardison sighed. “I feel like a mean mom when I tell him to do things he doesn't like.” 

“Yeah. I appreciate it, though. He probably does too.” 

“I get all the lousy jobs. Used to be I was the one digging through trash. Now I'm nagging Eliot.” 

She leant forward and kissed his nose. 

Hardison narrowed his eyes at her. “What about you? You probably need a check-up too. I'mma schedule you in right next to Eliot.” 

Parker snorted. She didn't argue that she was fine, or that doctors were useless – there'd be no point. “Whatever,” she said, indulging in juvenile stomping as she went upstairs. 

Sighing, she flopped down in front of the mirror in their home gym to begin her yoga routine. She'd once started her mornings with athletics training that would have put many Olympians to shame, but Eliot and Hardison had convinced her to try a lower impact exercise, and the stretches were better than nothing. 

Her body looked different in the mirror, always surprising her – a thicker waist than she'd had once, more thigh. A jagged scar across her stomach hiding wounds that had led to multiple surgeries. Most of the changes were inside though, not highlighted by scars or obvious injuries. A knee that locked or refused to bear her weight, wrists that swelled and wouldn't bend, a spine that sent unpredictable waves of hot pain through her whole body. She'd been so careful, always fast, always light, but her work had still caught up with her. 

She stretched, careful not to think about the attack where she'd been stabbed and Eliot had busted his back – that brush with death had not been filled with adrenaline and freedom. It hadn't been a brush with death at all: it had been an intimate relationship, gruelling and abusive. Years later, she was still exhausted by it. Changed by it. 

*

The shower started. She heard Eliot mutter and groan. He'd only slept for a few hours, but she hoped the pill had helped, at least a little. Eliot was too stoical for his own damn good. 

She followed him, damp from his shower, into their bedroom. It was mostly to ogle him, and only a little because she hoped he'd let her help him with his shoes.

“Hot out today,” Eliot said. 

Parker nodded. It was finally getting warmer, a relief after a long, damp spring. She got one of Eliot's shirts out of the drawer. “Here. I like you in red.” 

He took it wordlessly. “Might go to the restaurant today. Look at the menu.” 

She nodded. “Bug the sous-chef, intimidate everyone while you prep carrots. Is chocolate mousse still on?” 

Eliot rolled his shoulders and swore. Parker winced in sympathy. “I could rustle some up for you, darling,” he said, digging in the back of his closest for some lightweight summer pants. 

As he pulled them on, she wished he'd let her help with the bending, at least on bad days. She watched as he tugged them over his hips, and realised before he did that they wouldn't fasten at his waist. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, tugging at them. He closed the closet, looking at himself in the mirrored door. His shirt, unbuttoned, revealed his chest and stomach. 

He'd been resting more over the last few months, grudgingly sitting when he'd normally have been training. And he'd been spending a lot of time in the restaurant, bringing home succulent roast chickens, creamy stews, complicated chocolate desserts, and sharing them with his two partners. Parker had noticed extra weight settling around his stomach. She wasn't sure if he had or not. 

Clearly he hadn't, because he was staring at himself in alarm. 

“Why didn't you say something?” 

Parker shrugged. “Why would I? Besides, you look hot.” 

“It's not about how I look! Jesus, Parker, I'm still a fighter. I can't let myself get out of shape...” 

“You've been taking care of yourself,” Parker said carefully. It was not the time to tell him he shouldn't fight anyone right now. Maybe ever. “It's important. So you've put on some pounds, so what?” 

Eliot stared at himself again, and grabbed his belly. The flesh jiggled slightly under his hand. “How come I didn't notice?” he said, pinching himself harshly. 

“Hey.” Parker took his hand, stilling it. She placed it on her own hip. “What do you feel?”

Eliot's forehead wrinkled. “Nothing. Skin. You.” 

“Grab me,” Parker said, manipulating his hand under her own, so he gripped a handful of her loose flesh. “When you first fucked me, were you able to get a grip on me? Probably not. I was all muscle. Now I'm not. We change, Eliot.” 

“It's different...” Eliot protested. 

“Take the stupid pants off,” Parker said, and then did it herself, tugging them down to his ankles. “We'll throw them out. They're the problem, not you.” 

Eliot slowly stepped out of them, as Parker knelt, despite a protest from her knees, and nuzzled his lower belly, his stomach. He was covered in wiry hairs, tawny and dark, and his skin was smooth, soft, familiar. She licked, inhaling the familiar scent. Her tongue trailed down the hairs leading to his groin. 

“You can't distract me with sex, Parker,” Eliot said. 

“Yes I can.” She licked his thigh, the skin pale from a long winter, and along the line of his hip. Eliot muttered, shuddered. She pulled down his boxers, revealing his soft cock, his pubic hair still damp from the shower. 

Parker nosed at his stomach, at the soft mound that had grown familiar to her over the past months. She pressed kisses by his navel and the long scar above it. She licked, tasting his soap and her own saliva. 

Then her left knee sent a scream of protest through her, and she staggered up, gasping. 

Eliot touched her cheek, concern on his face. But she didn't want concern. She pulled him towards her, and guided him to the bed. She sat on it, and bracketed his hips with her hands, so he was standing in front of her. It was a tall bed, so she barely had to dip her head to reach his cock. 

He wasn't hard, but he was getting there. Parker loved oral sex. She loved giving it perhaps even more than she loved receiving it. She loved the taste of her men, the shape of their cocks, the sounds they made. How she felt in complete control of them, how they seemed to belong to her, to shape themselves to her mouth and tongue and lips. 

Her rhythm with Eliot was looser than with Hardison. Eliot's cock was smaller, his stamina greater, he was slower to arouse and took longer to come. She took her time with him, relaxing her jaw, smelling his pre-ejaculate, feeling the sharpness of his pubic hair against her nose. The silkiness of his cock-head under her tongue.

His hands shifted: he rested one on her shoulder, one at the back of her head. Even after all this time, he was still careful with her, still acted as though he might take too much. Parker wasn't careful with him at all, not now, with her mouth on him. It might have been his cock in her mouth, but she was the one fucking him. He was gasping under her, thighs trembling. She was taking him apart, as she'd done so many times. 

She wondered distantly if she should let him stand for this long. But he was hard now, and if he was in pain, it wasn't getting in the way of that arousal. And she hoped he'd tell her if he wanted to change position. 

She kissed his cock, tugging, sucking. His orgasm built slowly: she could feel it in his pulsing blood and his ragged breath. She responded to him, moving her tongue more swiftly, pumping her hand around the base of his cock. He was smooth as silk under her fingers. 

He warned her that he was going to come, but he didn't need to. She could feel it in the way his cock twitched, his hands flexed. She let him come in her mouth. She hated the taste, but liked the feeling of him shuddering under her tongue. Keeping her fingers pumping his cock, she spat out into a cup sticky with orange soda that Hardison had left by the bed. Then she leant her forehead against his stomach, panting against him, his fingers in her hair. 

“Jesus fuck,” Hardison said. “Put a sock on the door next time. Some of us are trying to work.” 

Parker snorted. “You love it. We should charge admission.” 

Eliot sat down on the bed next to her, leant his head on her shoulder, his damp hair tickling her neck. She stoked her fingers down his chest. His shirt was still on, unbuttoned, red contrasting with his winter-pale skin. 

“Can I do something for you, sweetheart?” he asked. 

Parker rocked her hips, thought about it. “No, I don't feel like coming right now. You might want to do something for Alec, though.” 

Hardison shrugged. He came and sat on Eliot's other side, one long arm snaking around both of their shoulders. 

“Eliot finally noticed his gut,” Parker told him. 

“Oh Eliot, baby!” Hardison cried. “You're sexy as hell and I always want you to fuck me.” 

Eliot snorted and whacked both of them on the back of the head. “I'm not gonna be able to get it up for a while, man. Parker sucked my brains out.” 

“I love your butt. I dream about your butt. And your arms, Eliot, I would die for your arms. And the belly, it's perfect, I like putting my hand on it when we're asleep...” 

“Hardison?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Shut the fuck up, sweetheart,” Eliot said. He rubbed his face with his hand. “I dunno why I'm surprised. We all go to seed in the end.” 

“You haven't gone to seed,” Hardison said. “Jesus, Eliot, not even close. You can still take apart the punching-bags faster than I can buy them.” 

“I haven't, not in a while,” Eliot protested. He rubbed his hands over his stomach, down to his thighs. Seemed suddenly aware he was the only one among them who was naked. “Do I need another shower?” 

“Nah,” Parker said. “Unless you really object to smelling like my spit. Which I think would be kind of unreasonable, all things considered.” 

“I'll go the restaurant, then. Work out a new low-carb menu.” 

Parker shook her head. “Not really? You're not going to take the gnocchi off, are you?” 

“I'm kidding,” Eliot said. “That would be an overreaction.” 

“Thank God.” Hardison leant his head on Eliot's shoulder. Eliot sighed, and let them cuddle him. 

*

“I thought I'd be the one who couldn't do it,” Parker said. She'd taken her tylenol-3 and her after tylenol nap, and was stretching on a yoga mat at Hardison's feet. Eliot had returned with gnocchi and chocolate torte, and was looking after the herbs he grew on the balcony, cutting back the mint, watering the basil. 

“Do what?” Hardison said, idling playing with some new mods for his game. 

“You know. Live a normal life.” 

“I don't think you're living a normal life. What is a normal life, anyway? Is it having an office job and some kids?” 

Parker touched her toes. “I'd hate that. But I'm kicking Eliot's ass at being retired.” 

“We ain't retired,” Eliot and Hardison said, at almost the same time. 

“I am working my ass off every day going through data, writing code...” Hardison began. 

“You think running a restaurant isn't work? You think staying up all night pretending to be a general and intimidating the military isn't work?” Eliot cut in. 

“Maybe I'm kicking _both_ your asses at retirement then,” Parker said, folding carefully into a hamstring stretch. Her knees might complain but her hamstrings had still got it. 

“Nope,” Hardison said, pushing aside his laptop. “This whole conversation proves you're not. You're still competitive and single-minded and hard to work with.” 

“And when was the last time I broke into a museum?” Parker said. She sighed, shifting into a much more painful hip-opener. “Don't answer, it's too depressing. I don't even know who stole that Vermeer in Boston. I'm not even sure if I care.” 

“This is a bad game,” Eliot said, sitting down and ruffling his hair. “Stop showing off how apathetic you are, Parker.” 

“Yeah.” Hardison slid over next to Eliot on the couch, and leant his head on Eliot's shoulder. “We're all dealing with this as best we can. It ain't a competition.” 

Parker watched them, their fingers curling easily together, Hardison's nose against Eliot's collarbone. It had been harder for them to touch casually at first, social pressure telling it might be OK to fuck another man, but to cuddle one was unacceptable. Now they were more tactile with one another than they were with her, both craving physical contact in a way she did not. 

Looking at them touch one another, hold hands, lean into each other, press a kiss to a forehead or cheek, made her feel safe and cherished. That place of quiet intimacy was her home too. 

“If you don't want me to be apathetic, let's talk again about installing a zipline,” Parker said, and listened to them both point out all the ways that would be terrible for her legs and spine, as she knew they would. 

For so long, she hadn't had a routine. Nothing in her life was predictable. And now she loved knowing exactly how her partners would respond to her. She loved knowing where she'd fall asleep and where she'd wake up. She didn't feel stifled, she felt free. 

She absolutely was kicking their asses at retirement. 

*

“You get nightmares,” Parker said, twining her fingers with Hardison's. “And we don't. It doesn't seem fair.” 

The backyard was cold, a persistent dampness in the air. Hardison sat in on the veranda steps, wearing a bathrobe, naked underneath. Parker, in one of Eliot's sweaters, was cold. 

“It helps to be out here.” Hardison tugged at a loose thread on his sleeve. 

“I know,” Parker said. She rested her hand on Hardison's shoulder. He usually craved touch, hugs and bodily warmth, but she was careful with him now. After a nightmare, he was altered. Raw, like he'd lost a layer of skin. 

He squeezed her hand, and she took that as an invitation to press into him and rest her head on his shoulder. 

“Eliot said he'd gone to seed. But that doesn't make sense,” she said. “Not seeds – we were seeds then. When Nate put us together. Young and tough. Waiting to turn into something.” 

“We can change, still,” Hardison said. “Turn into anything we like. There are lots of futures.” 

Parker felt the a cool breeze on her face. It was going to rain. “I know. But we're not seeds. Flowers, maybe. We've settled, we've opened ourselves.” 

“I like that.” Hardison squeezed her shoulder. She felt his warm breath on her cheek. “It's expansive. Don't tell Eliot he's a flower though.” 

“Eliot likes flowers.” She sighed. “He's going to be OK, isn't he?” 

“We'll get him back to the doctor --” 

“I don't mean the health stuff.” 

Hardison smoothed his bathrobe where it gaped at his chest. “He's doing well, Mama. He's tough.” 

“He's more...” Parker rocked thoughtfully, unsure how to phrase it. “He's more brittle than us, I guess.” 

“We all worry about each other, you know. Eliot and I talk about whether you're OK.” 

“Huh.” Parker laced their fingers together. “Eliot and I talk about whether we should make you go jogging.” 

“Jogging?” Hardison sounded horrified. “You can make me do a lot of things, but not jog. Never.” 

“Kick-boxing?” 

“I thought we were all about body positivity in this family,” Hardison said. “Wasn't that what we were saying to Eliot all evening? Why are you attacking me like this?” 

A thin rain began to fall, but Hardison didn't move. Parker nudged him with her head. “It's good to be active,” she said. 

“I'm plenty active. Just because I don't put my feet behind my ears for fun...” 

Parker squeezed his hand. Her hair was sticking to her forehead. “Should we go inside?” 

“Yeah.” But Hardison stayed where he was, tugging at his sleeves, staring at the night. 

“Do you want to talk about the nightmare?” she asked after a while. She could smell the garden now, lush with the vegetables she and Eliot grew. The soft green smell of wet leaves, of earth drinking in the rain. 

“It's always the same,” Hardison said. “The attack. I see you both fall. You don't get up.” 

Parker didn't say anything. She stayed close, letting her skin grow damp, giving Hardison her presence. 

After a long moment, he stood up slowly, and pulled her to her feet. Her knee protested, jarred by staying in one position in the cold. She stopped herself from limping as she followed Hardison inside. 

She debated having a shower, but settling for towelling off her hair. Hardison was already in bed when she got in the room. 

“Why are you so cold?” Eliot was complaining. “You're making the pillow damp, dammit.” 

Parker got in on Eliot's other side, pressing cold feet up against his calf. He hissed in annoyance. “You too? I'm an old man, you should treat me with more respect.” 

“You're barely fifty,” Hardison said. “Shh. Some of us are trying to sleep.” 

“Yeah, me,” Eliot said. He turned his head, nose touching Parker's neck. “You smell like rain.” 

“The artichokes are coming up. And the beets,” Parker said. She reached over Eliot's stomach to hold Hardison's hand. The warmth of both their bodies seeped into hers.


End file.
